


Better Home

by hannahrhen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Feeding, Fluff, Food, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve misses Bucky's curves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Home

**Author's Note:**

> AKA Steve has a chubby!Bucky kink. Inspired by pretty much everything going on at [iwritetheweirdstuff.tumblr.com](iwritetheweirdstuff.tumblr.com), let's be honest.

The first time Steve saw Bucky naked, after finding out his friend was still alive, brainwashed, and murderous, he …

Okay, Sam would say, “You flipped out, old man,” and Steve couldn’t dispute it. Had a hard time articulating why, when they asked him. Why his skin prickled cold and his heart pounded irregularly in his chest. Finally shook his head and tried, a little helplessly.

“He’s too hard.”

Didn’t look up even though he could tell they were looking at each other, Sam and Natasha, and he struggled to explain more, because he knew they wouldn’t understand. Bucky ... had always been strong. Healthy. Broad-shouldered and quick on his feet and … so sure of himself.

But he’d also had, and it was hard to say—to describe—but he’d had a sweet softness to him. Round curve under his jaw that doubled when he really laughed. Convex swell over his beltline, where the summertime padding from his mother’s pies loosened his belt buckle a notch. Perfect dimples above his—above the seat of his pants, where Bucky had the outline of a well-formed woman.

Best buttocks Steve had ever seen, on man or woman, truth be told. “You could bounce a quarter off that,” one of the jerks on the corner had said, about a woman, and Steve had immediately thought of Bucky’s butt (and never stopped thinking about it).

When Bucky let him touch—let Steve hug himself against that taller frame, or rest his head on those thick thighs, snuffle his nose into that doubled chin … It was like Steve’s planes and angles had found their mates.

They _fit._

And that tiny bit of luxury, of comfort, had been starved, worked … _skinned_ from his body. Bucky had caught him looking, after he conceded to taking that first shower in Steve’s apartment and started stripping down right in the living room, for God’s sake. Cold and methodical, and it made Steve hurt, but he couldn’t help but look. Had to catalogue the visible lines of lean muscle sleek over sharp bones.

Bucky didn’t look comfortable anymore. He looked like how pain felt.

And Bucky’s frown when he saw Steve’s expression was perfectly clear; he knew Steve was upset. Hurt by what he saw: remnants of torture, forced training. Deprivation. Bucky only stripped down the once, where Steve could see, and after that he’d hid himself.

And he definitely wouldn’t let Steve touch.

When Steve had finally described it enough, Sam had been the one to speak. (Natasha had wandered to the window, arms crossed and back to the room, and Steve wondered what she had looked like after she was released, and suspected again he had been hurtful without meaning to.) Sam had leaned back in his chair, across from Steve, taken a pull off his beer, and shrugged. “Sounds like that boy just needs someone to take care of him.” His voice was low—Bucky was out, somewhere, but had a tendency to return unannounced and on silent feet. Continued, pointed: “I wonder if you know anyone who can cook?”

Steve had bought a red-checked _Better Homes and Gardens_ cookbook the next day.

At first, Bucky was careful about what he was willing to eat. Steve learned quickly, and painfully, that the cream-colored mystery casseroles would be immediately rejected in favor of “something I can recognize, come on,” as Bucky retreated to the kitchen and cut up some fruit to go with two baked chicken breasts. (Steve fretted: Not enough fat.)

So, he moved on to the basic meats himself, the poultry, the fish—all doused with thin but secretly high-calorie sauces. (It was amazing how much butter you could load into a humble sauce, if you had all the butter in the world, which his supermarket in fact seemed to carry. He didn’t know butter could force you to make so many decisions.)

Kept the sides simple. Potatoes. Rice. Broccoli with an even layer of uniform-colored cheese. Beans with fatback, and tortillas, and sweet and sour chicken after Bucky started to trust him more.

It’s possible Steve bought gallons of whole milk and dodged the incredulous looks from anyone who saw them; he got the impression whole milk was out of fashion, but so was he, and he liked it.

So did Bucky. Steve actually smiled when he pulled one of the plastic containers out of the fridge only to find a couple of swallows left in the bottom.

And then he started baking. Bucky, it turned out, didn’t have the same triggers for “shit mixed together, Steve” when the ingredients were variations on sugar, flour, vanilla, eggs, and more butter, and were shaped into cakes and cookies and pies (just like his mother’s—Steve even grimaced through kneading the lard-laced crusts). Sometimes Bucky watched, and maybe he wanted to make sure Steve wasn’t hiding anything, but maybe he just liked to see Steve form lumps of dough into crescents and triangles and circles with perfect thumbprints in the top.

Turned out Bucky liked—loved—Nutella. Steve spooned it into those thumbprints and watched Bucky eat, pleasure curling in his own belly.

It took weeks—months, really, before the day finally came. Had seen little changes, tiny changes—felt Bucky occupying more space and occasionally resting his hand on his belly after dinner. Caught Bucky looking at him with narrow eyes as he put another piece of toast and two more eggs (over easy) on his plate. As Steve honed in on his favorites (Mexican wedding cookies, blueberry pie) and made them again and again and _again._

Was content with not saying a word, never saying anything—just appreciating the slow return of the familiar profile. The one he had missed.

The one that _fit._

But …

He heard Bucky swearing from the bedroom. Could tell it was irritated rather than truly angry or something worse, so Steve only _walked_ very quickly through the doorframe. Held his breath at what he saw.

It was Bucky, holding his own breath, too, in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of Steve’s bedroom. Trying very hard to notch the belt buckle into the worn-out slot instead of the next one out. His jeans were barely buttoned, hanging on under a perfect swell of fat over the waistband. An inch—okay, maybe two (maybe), but Bucky clearly had been trying to make it work and was finally losing the battle.

He had two perfect dimples just over the curve of that beautiful ass. Which resolutely was not fitting into those pants. Something low in Steve’s gut fluttered, but so did his heart.

He looked like _Bucky._

Steve looked up, and, yeah, he was caught, Bucky watching him with one eyebrow up. Steve noticed he had a little padding under his jaw that only became more apparent as Bucky tilted his head down and aimed a sharper glare at him. It kind of made Steve’s mouth go dry.

“This is your fault, you know.” Steve threw his hands up as Bucky gave up on the belt, turned away from the mirror, and stalked over. “You did this.” And Steve thought he heard a hidden smile in the tone, under the gruff words, but he didn’t want to take his chances.

“I don’t know what you—,” and at Bucky’s chiding look, immediately gave up. The flour ground into the kitchen floorboards was probably all the evidence anyone needed. “Yeah … yes, okay.” He laughed a little, now that he thought it was okay. “ … _Yeah_.” And even though it hadn’t been invited, yet, even though Bucky had barely let Steve touch since his return, Steve couldn’t help but put his hands on Bucky’s hips—slide his palms up to the warm flesh that overlapped his waistband. Almost groaned at the softness layered over muscle underneath. “You were too—,” and, “They—”

Steve felt himself jostled by a sharp huff. “Yeah, I know.” He was pulled in closer, all of Steve’s planes and angles melding into the soft warmth that met him, and he pressed his face into Bucky’s neck. “You really think I didn’t know what you were up to—feeding me up like a spring piglet?”

Steve dared to chuckle then, settling hands over Bucky’s—God. That _ass._ And Bucky was letting Steve touch him. Hell, letting him look. He watched his own hands in the mirror across the room, saw how perfectly they fit. How perfectly Steve still fit Bucky.

“I hope you don’t mind—,” Steve started. He rested his chin on one strong shoulder.

Was patted on the back in return. “Naw. It’s kind of nice to see something familiar in the mirror again.” A light pinch on Steve’s own butt, and Steve made a little noise. “Now, suit up—I’m gonna need some new clothes.” Pulled back enough to give Steve a slanted smile, a sly look. Patted him on the cheek. "And I'll let you pay."

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [hannahrhen.tumblr.com](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com), having defrosted-soldiers-in-love emotions. And if you like looking behind the curtain, here's some [fretful meta](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com/post/87925099583/perils-of-trying-out-new-kinks-more-i-juuust) about this ficlet.


End file.
